


Just put me inside you, I would never ever leave

by elanorelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:11:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanorelle/pseuds/elanorelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the first motel they've seen for fifty miles and the first time they've really stopped anywhere for almost three thousand.</p><p>(Episode tag 4x22. Originally posted to LJ 04/09/2009.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just put me inside you, I would never ever leave

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spnkink_meme. Title from VAST.

It's the first motel they've seen for fifty miles and the first time they've really stopped anywhere for almost three thousand. It's not safe, exactly—nothing really is anymore—but it's in the middle of nowhere and Castiel's arranged what protection he can. Successive nights spent by the side of the road mean that Dean's willing to take the risk.

If Sam has an opinion, he isn't voicing it, but that's nothing new, by now.

He hasn't spoken much—not since Lucifer pulled himself out of Hell and offered thanks to the Boy King for making it happen—and no matter what Dean tries, that doesn't seem to change. And Dean's pissed, of course he's still pissed, but mostly he's just anxious, now, and more than anything he needs to know he has Sam back on side.

The room's a piece of shit, all told: drab and damp-smelling, with about as many mod-cons as a shack in the woods, and the most that can be said for it is that it has four walls and a door that locks.

"Cas thinks we oughta be safe here for one night," Dean says, when he's done salting the windows and door. "But I guess we'll see. Angels or demons – wanna bet who walks through the door first?"

Sam doesn't look up from the Devil's Trap he's spray-painting onto the floor. "Not really," he says.

Dean's mildly surprised to get a response. "So you can still speak," he remarks, "I was starting to wonder."

Sam stands up and puts the can of paint back into his duffel, but he still won't look Dean in the eye. "What exactly do you want me to say, Dean?"

And the answer to that's simple, at least: "Something. Anything."

Sam doesn't reply. Dean inhales deeply and tries again. "C'mon, Sam. After everything, the least you can do is fucking talk to me."

Sam shrugs. "Not feeling too chatty, right now. Sorry to disappoint," he says, and Dean knows the second part of that sentence doesn't only refer to the first.

The silence that follows hangs heavy between them – loaded with shame and guilt and all the things they still haven't forgiven each other for, and Dean's tired of it.

"It's okay, Sam," he says, which isn't true, but he thinks maybe the fact that he wants it to be true can be enough, for now.

Sam doesn't seem to think so, however, because he laughs, harsh and bitter, heading a little towards the hysterical, and says, "It's the apocalypse, Dean, I think it's about as far from okay as you can get."

Sam's got a point, actually, but as it's really not the apocalypse Dean's concerned with right now, he ignores the comment and tries a different tack.

"It's not your fault," he ends up saying, which isn't really true either, but he's tired of passing blame back and forth, and he figures it's all pretty fucking moot by this point, anyway. They both started this thing; they can both finish it, or at least die trying, but not like this. Not with backs to the wall and fingers pointing in accusation and absolutely no trust between them. It can't be that way, so when Sam says nothing, Dean says once more: "It's not your fault, Sam."

Sam laughs again, but this time it sounds more like a sob. His eyes don't look wet, but his voice sounds thick when he speaks.

"If you say that one more time, Dean I swear to—" slight hesitation before Sam finishes the sentence, "—whoever the fuck it is we're dealing with that I will put one or both of us in the fucking hospital. I mean it."

Dean waits a couple of seconds. "It's not your—"

Sam's punch doesn't land, but only because he's exhausted and his aim's for shit. He staggers a little, catching himself from falling on the rickety piece of wood that passes for a table. When he straightens again and looks up, his eyes are still angry and wild.

"So that's how you want it to be?" Dean says, "You'd prefer for us to carry on throwing punches? Tearing pieces out of each other? Are you really so pissed that you can't even talk to me?" He tries to keep his voice down—not drawing attention to themselves is pretty much the name of the game right now—and the result is low and gruff, words scratching at his throat.

Sam seats himself heavily at the end of the bed, head in his hands, as worn down and burnt out as Dean's ever seen him.

"No, Dean," he says, voice high and uneven, "It's not that—"

"Then what is it?"

"I just can't, alright?" Sam snaps, looking up to meet Dean's eyes, finally. "I know you want me to, but I just _can't_."

Sam looks stricken, and it's enough to stop Dean from pushing any further, for now. He sits on the bed next to Sam, suddenly feeling the full weight of the weariness he's been holding back.

"Well, you're going to have to eventually," he says, closing his eyes against the dim room and the dull ache at his temples. "We need to, both of us," he also says, but doesn't say _I need you_ even though that's what he means.

They sit in silence for a while. It's only minutes, probably, though it feels like longer, and Dean's almost asleep sitting up when Sam says, "Dean," hesitantly.

Dean turns his head, opening his eyes slowly, and Sam's face is closer to his than he'd imagined; he's got no time to prepare for the way Sam leans in and presses their lips together.

It's not a perfect solution—not really a solution at all—and talking would still be better, Dean thinks, but … at least Sam's giving him _something_ other than silence, and it's been so long since the last time, and really, there isn't a single part of Dean that wants to say no.

They undress slowly, quietly, and it almost feels normal. Almost like before there was an apocalypse, or angels, or demon blood shot through Sam's veins or hellfire burnt into the make-up of Dean's bones. Nothing's felt this simple in a long time, and Dean's grateful for it.

As soon as they're naked, though, Sam seems to lose his nerve. His hands move skittishly over Dean's body, his touch randomly alternating between soft and bruising, and it's clear he has no idea what he wants or where to start. In the end, Dean makes the decision for him, running his hand down Sam's side and lower, fingers dipping into the crease of his ass in a suggestion Sam can take or leave, just as he likes.

It's not the way they usually do things, and it looks like Sam might want to keep it that way, at first, from the way he stiffens and pulls back with apparent trepidation, or maybe just derision. But then he nods emphatically, waving a hand in the general direction of his duffle and saying, "There's stuff in my bag, still."

The condoms and lube are surprisingly easy to find, considering how long it's been since they've used them, and when Dean turns back to the bed, Sam's laid out on his front, face buried in the pillows and legs splayed. Dean almost wants to stand back and appreciate the sight for a moment, but he doesn't want Sam to think he's hesitating, not even for a second, and so he gets back onto the bed and puts his hands on Sam's skin again immediately.

His mouth follows his fingers, wet trail of kisses down Sam's spine, everywhere Dean can reach, and then he's where he wants to be, pushing inside Sam's hole with slick fingers and his mouth at the small of Sam's back.

It's difficult, at first, and though Sam doesn't offer any overt indication that he's uncomfortable, Dean can tell from the tight clench of his ass around Dean's two fingers that anything more than that is going to be all but impossible. It's been a while since they've done it this way – Dean can't even remember specifically the last time – but he knows that's not the only reason. He can see the way Sam's body is tense all over, poised ready to run, or fight, or maybe it's just the only way he has of holding himself together. Whatever it means, it isn't helpful.

"Sam," he says, "Sammy, you gotta relax for me, man."

Sam doesn't say anything, but his head moves on the pillow in a way Dean assumes means _no_.

Dean pulls his fingers free of Sam's body, and rests both hands gently on Sam's thighs, rubbing his thumbs back and forth across the skin, feeling the muscles coiled underneath.

"Sam, this isn't gonna work unless you relax, I'm just gonna end up hurting you."

Sam doesn't move, but it's the stillness more than anything that tells Dean what he's thinking.

Dean breathes deep. "Sam, I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? I won't do that. If that's what you want from me, then we can just stop right now."

Sam remains silent.

"Is that what you want?" Dean asks. For a second, he thinks Sam might actually be about to say yes, but in the end he shakes his head again and says, "No, don't stop," the words muffled into the pillow.

"Okay, then you gotta loosen up a little," Dean says, "Gotta relax, Sammy."

But Sam just tenses his shoulders even more, saying, "I can't, Dean, I can't—" voice desperate and pleading.

"Yes you can," Dean says, moving up to lie beside Sam, nudging at his brother's face until Sam reluctantly turns his head to the side, though he still won't look at Dean. His eyes are red, and maybe it's just where the rough material of the pillow case has been irritating them, but Dean thinks he can taste salt on Sam's lips when they kiss.

"It's okay, Sammy, I got you," he says, quietly, wanting the words to be heard but not so sure that they will be. "I got you," he says again, "Just gotta open up for me, let me inside," and they both know he isn't just talking about the sex.

That's for later, though. For now, it's enough that Sam nods, albeit reluctantly, and lets some of the tension ease out of his body, enough that when Dean slides his fingers back inside, it's easier and smoother than it was before.

He goes slow, deliberately taking far longer than Sam normally would with him, and isn't particularly surprised when Sam starts losing patience; he squirms and fidgets, finally saying, "Dean, c'mon," in a plaintive voice, and it's nothing Dean hasn't heard a thousand times before.

He bites down on the inside of Sam's thigh—not especially hard, but enough to make a point—and just waits until Sam's settled again beneath him before he carries on.

It's three fingers, and then four, by which point Sam is working his hips against the mattress and taking in these little hitched breaths that make him sound so desperate and close that Dean can't draw this out any longer.

Not like this, though. He doesn't want to do it like this.

"Roll over," he says, tapping at Sam's hip with the palm of one hand.

Sam shifts a little, but doesn't move. "Dean—"

"We've been over this, Sammy. Either we do this my way or we don't do it at all. 's up to you."

Sam hesitates a moment longer, but then he does roll onto his back, muttering something that sounds like, "Fucking bossy," under his breath. It's a reflex, more than anything, his tone is still strained and doesn't seem to suit the words, but if it's not quite enough to really lighten the mood, then it's probably about as close as they're gonna get.

When Dean pushes inside with his cock for the first time, the sensation is momentarily enough almost to overwhelm him. Sam's so tight, still, in spite of all the prep; hot and slick and incredible, and even if Dean hadn't forgotten how it felt, exactly, the memory's certainly not enough to do it justice. He rests his head against Sam's chest, for a moment, struggling to get his breath back and trying desperately not to come just from this, until Sam's legs come up to wrap gently around his waist and he rocks up a little, coaxing.

Dean takes a second to kiss Sam's mouth, his jaw, the curve of his neck, before he starts to move.

They fuck slowly; even when Sam makes it clear with the thrust of his hips and the tight clutch of his hands on Dean's skin that that's not what he wants, Dean ignores him, setting his own pace and making Sam take it, until Sam's given up trying to shift the momentum and just moves in tandem with Dean, meeting him stroke for stroke.

Things get hazy after that, and Dean loses focus on anything that isn't the tight heat of his brother's body and the bright wave of relief and familiarity and _love_ he can feel cresting over both of them that makes Dean realise what it is they’ve been missing all these months, what they nearly lost forever, what they can't _afford_ to be without anymore, not if they're going to win this war they've started.

Maybe he says some or all of that out loud, he isn't totally sure, but suddenly Sam's grabbing at him, saying _Dean, Dean, Dean_ in his ear, spilling warm over Dean's hand and his own stomach, and it's enough to send Dean over the edge too, fucking into Sam once, twice more before he collapses, heavy and spent, onto Sam's chest.

.

Sam is usually pretty chatty after sex, rambling on incessantly about anything that crosses his mind when all Dean wants to do is go to sleep. Dean had figured that wouldn't be the case tonight, all things considered, but it just goes to show that Sam can still be predictable as he ever was, even now. As soon as Sam's breathing has slowed enough to make talking a possibility, he opens his mouth and starts rambling; apologies and excuses and cracked pleas for forgiveness that are too much to bear even—especially—in the darkness.

Dean silences them all with long, deep kisses and then, in the quiet left behind, says, "It's okay, Sam."

"It's not okay," Sam says into Dean's shoulder, and he's right, so Dean clarifies a little.

" _We're_ okay."

"Dean, no we're _not_ , god, how can you even _say_ that, it's not—"

"Yes," Dean says, "it is."

Sam shifts and makes a sound like he's going to start talking again, but Dean shakes his head and says, "Just shut up and go to sleep, Sam, alright?

Sam blinks at him in the dark, eyes glinting in the weak light coming in through the window. "You shut up," he says.

The answer is so surprisingly normal that Dean can't help the burst of laughter that escapes into the room. "That the kind of smack talk we're reduced to now?" he says, "Fine, you're ugly. Now go to sleep, for Christ's sake."

There's a pause where Dean thinks maybe Sam's listened to him for once in his goddamned life, but then Sam starts fidgeting and begins again in that same desperate voice: "Dean, I'm sor—"

"What did I _just_ say, Sam?"

Sam's breath hitches, sounding wet and thick, but his tone is a fraction lighter when he answers.

"That I'm ugly?"

Dean doesn't laugh this time, but he does smile up at the ceiling instead and says, "Alright, smart ass, just go to sleep, would you?"

Dean's fairly sure that Sam doesn't actually go to sleep as he's told, but when Dean wakes up next morning he's still there; warm in Dean's arms, and alive, and _Sam_ , and that's enough.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Prompt:** Sam/Dean, bottom!Sam comfort sex. Post-s4, Sam feeling all broken and guilty but so used to being closed off and alone he still can't open up to Dean about it. So Dean takes care of Sam lovingly and schmoopingly.


End file.
